


Six Months

by mondschein1



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-05
Updated: 2005-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-10 10:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11125320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondschein1/pseuds/mondschein1
Summary: Fuck, Ben's been dead for six months.





	Six Months

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Six Months

## Six Months

  
by Giulietta  


Disclaimer: Fraser doesn't belong to me, in this world or the next. 

Author's Notes: *sighs* I really wish I didn't have to tell you this is a death story right off -- takes rather a lot of the punch out. Ah well. Very post-CotW, with established relationship.

* * *

"Yeah, okay," Ray says, holding the telephone between his ear and shoulder and scrawling reminders on a spare piece of paper, "I can do that. I'll trek out...tomorrow morning, that good? ...Yeah, okay, I get your point. Tomorrow afternoon, then. And, uh, Fred, _Don't_ touch anything before I get there. I mean it. No offense or nothin', just -- you got a knack or makin' engines explode. 'Kay -- see you."  
  
Ray hangs up the phone and works the cricks out of his neck with one hand. Damn, he's tired -- which anybody would be, if they'd been spending most of their time trying to be the Force of Good working against to Anderson kid's Force of Evil. Well, maybe he's not so much evil as totally, totally doomed to be a mechanic and obsessive engine-rebuilder -- but for now, the kid's just breaking the snowmobile, making his dad confused and late to work, and slowly driving Ray out of his mind. 'Sokay though. That's what kids're supposed to do. Maybe Ray'll even let him help.   
  
There's stew in the fridge, from when Mrs. Ferguson came over Tuesday. She's nice -- she's one of those mothers who feed everybody they can lay their Corningware pans on when their kids move out. Even better, she can actually _cook_. It'd made her kinda upset when Ray'd told her that he won't ever eat musk ox, but she manages to feed him anyway, substituting beef and chicken when needed. She worries about Ray, which is nice of her -- mainly, she worries that he'll stop eating, but she worries about him otherwise too. A lot. Ray sometimes thinks that she expects to find him dead on the bed every time she visits -- but hey, whatever, this way he has somebody to talk to and beef stew to eat on a regular basis.   
  
Ray heats up a bowl of stew and takes it to his desk to eat it. It's good -- with carrots, onions, big chunks of beef, and spices 'cause Mrs. Ferguson says they're good for his heart. As he eats, he notices Fraser's desk calendar, which seems to think it's June 15th -- except it's not, 'cause Ray forgot to flip the page this morning. Ray _tries_ to flip the page every morning, because it's _Fraser's_ calendar, and Fraser'd never leave his calendar page unflipped -- so Ray flips it now, when he's tired and slowed down enough to pay attention to the fundamental wrongness of Fraser's calendar being off.   
  
So Ray flips the page, and the calendar politely informs him that it's June 16th, 2020 --   
  
_Fuck, Ben's been dead for six months._  
  
Ray stares at the oil drops floating on the surface of his stew for a minute, then drops the spoon back into the bowl -- he doesn't feel hungry anymore, for some reason. It don't got _anything_ to do with Fraser, 'cause Fraser is _dead_ , _has_ been dead for _months,_ and he's gotten _used_ to it, thank you very much. Ray's tired, that's all -- he's tired and he wants to go to _sleep_ , and there is nothing _wrong_ with that.   
  
Ray scrapes the stew back into Mrs. Ferguson's big white Corningware pan, puts it back in the fridge, and shuts off all the lights before crawling into bed. He throws an arm over his eyes, because he sleeps like that in the summer, to keep the sun out of his face -- and he's not crying. He's not. That would be stupid, because Fraser drowned _six months ago_ , and Ray hadn't cried then. He'd yelled a lot, because he'd been pretty sure that somebody stupid had made a mistake somewhere. Fraser'd known how to swim; he hadn't been the kind of guy who trips, falls into a river, flails for a minute or two and then sinks like a rock. Hell, even if Fraser _hadn't_ known how to swim, he'd probably have _learned_ how if he got dropped in. And there hadn't been a body -- which yeah, Ray'd yelled about that for a while too. But he doesn't remember much from Stella's law books, and they _had_ found some evidence -- The Hat, and some bloodstains on the gravel next to the water -- so Ray'd backed down. And _fuck_ yeah, he hates himself for it -- he can't even look at The Hat straight anymore -- but what the hell else was he supposed to do?  
  
He rolls over and glares at the second pillow in his bed, which he never ever sleeps on. He _should_ \-- because Fraser's _not_ coming back, and there's no point to cramping himself into one half of his bed, right? No body. There's no body. Current carried it away -- _goddammit why can't he get to sleep_ \--   
  
Suddenly, there's somebody in the cabin. Ray's not sure how -- the door's the only reasonable solution he can come up with, and even _that_ doesn't make any sense, because only he knows where the spare key is.  
  
Him, and Fraser -- which he is not even going to consider, nuh-uh, no way --   
  
"Good evening," says B -- no. _Not_ Ben. Whoever the hell just walked in. Or teleported, or whatever.   
  
"Uh," Ray says uncertainly, and Not-Ben settles down next to him.  
  
Well, shit. That's just dandy -- senility's _exactly_ what he needs right now.  
  
Ray stares up at the ceiling. If he doesn't think about whatever's breathing on his left ear, it'll just go away. It _will_.  
  
"Ray, are you feeling all right?"  
  
Ray licks his lips. "Fraser, you're dead."  
  
"Ah. Well, about that, I -- "  
  
"And, you know, correct me if I'm wrong -- "  
  
"In point of fact -- "  
  
" -- but I think I'm _talking_ to you? So no -- no, I am not _all right_ , Fraser." Ray rolls over, facing the wall, and shuts his eyes.   
  
"Ray -- Ray I'm not dead."  
  
Ray snorts bitterly. "Uh-huh. _'Course_ you're not. You just disappeared for six months for _no fuckng reason at all_. Right."  
  
"Ray. Ray -- please, you have to believe me, I can't -- "  
  
Ray wants to talk to Ben, he really does. He wants to say _Yes, I believe you. You're insane, and you narrowly avoid death every day, and this time it caught you closer, but you're really here -- I believe that. You'll do it again tomorrow, because you're a fucking_ idiot _, but I know you won't kick the bucket without warning me first, 'cause that's just plain rude_. He wants to roll back and hug Ben, trace whatever impressive new scar he has, maybe snuffle into his six-month-old shirt and secretly get it a little damp. He wants to believe; it'd make things a hell of a lot easier.   
  
But he doesn't, and a little while later all that warmth pressed up along his back and blowing over his ear just sort of...dissolves away, and his pillow's maybe not much of a replacement for an armful of Ben and his soft flannel, but it's all Ray's got. Ray's used to dealing with whatever he's got -- got real good at it after Stella dumped him, and that'd been _worse_ , 'cause Stella'd been actively trying to get away from him. Ben -- _Fraser_ , though --   
  
_("You see the blood pattern, Mr. Kowalski," the Mountie -- Sergeant Fucktard, or something -- says crisply, pointing down._  
  
Ray swallows the sour taste in the back of his throat and looks away quickly. "Yeah, what of it?"  
  
"Well, I'd gather that he tried to hang on to the edge after he got shot. Bled out some here -- he might've passed out or died, then, I can't really tell, but the current probably sucked him under."  
  
Ray stares at the Sergeant, his stomach churning. "Passed out or _died? What the fuck do you mean, 'or'? Like it doesn't_ matter _? Like -- "_  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Kowalski," the Mountie interrupts gently, which makes Ray even more pissed, because these people aren't _his friends, and they got no right to pretend to be, "but I'm afraid there's really no possibility that Corporal Fraser might still be alive. It's either the blood loss or the water that's done him in -- probably both.")_  
  
\-- Fraser'd probably tried to get back, hard as he could. It's not Ray's fault. It's that other guy's fault -- Louis Karell -- and Ray's put him away. And that's all he needs to do. Now, he just needs to cope.   
  
A really long time ago, when Ray'd still been trying to coax Stella's maternal instinct out of its cave, he'd taken her to see a movie about Casper, the friendly ghost. 'Course, the point then'd been to show Stella all the cute kiddies, but Ray still remembers the reigning theory on what makes people stick around after they die: unfinished business. And it seems to work in real life, too -- _Bob'd_ had unfinished business with _his_ family, you betcha. _He'd_ had to stick around.   
  
Had Ben had unfinished business with Ray?   
  
Ray almost wants to be able to say yes. He almost wants to be able to say that Ben'd cared about his work too much; he wants to be able to say that Ben has to come back and spend time with Ray to make up for how much he neglected him before he died. Ray almost wishes Ben had, because _after_ death is _forever_ , right? And that'd be better than even a whole lifetime, right?  
  
Ray reaches over and grabs Ben's pillow, curls around it -- and hey, maybe it still smells like Ben, a little. He'd slept on this pillow every night for twenty-one years straight -- next to that, a little thing like six months don't matter a bit.   
  
_\--fin_

  
 

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End Six Months by Giulietta 

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